


I've Been Dreaming of You from the Other Side (I Know You So Well)

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Clarke found out she had superpowers. Now she's all ready to start a new life: English teacher by day, vigilante by night. All she has to do is figure out how to be a superhero, avoid getting caught and shipped off by mandatory metahuman registration, and not strangle the stupid history teacher down the hall.</p><p>It'll be fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Been Dreaming of You from the Other Side (I Know You So Well)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andromedagreyjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedagreyjoy/gifts).



> I did a Tumblr fic giveaway, and this is the first of my fills for it! For andromedagreyjoy, who prompted me with (among other things): Superhero AU - love teaming up but don’t know the other’s identity… how could she know that the hot and frustrating history teacher from down the hall was her late-night vigilante counterpart?
> 
> And we all know how I feel about superheroes. Title from Loney, Dear!

Clarke could have been Batman, if she wanted to be.

She tells Raven this, drunkenly, the Saturday night before her first day of teaching English at Ark High School, and Raven snorts and rolls her eyes. "You could not."

"I could! How am I not Batman?"

Raven starts counting points off on her fingers. "You have superpowers, Batman doesn't. You parents aren't dead--"

"My dad might be," Clarke says, scowling. "And my mom might as well be."

"Yeah, but--recently. Not Batman, killed by muggers when you were a kid. Totally different parent issues. No sweet car--"

"You could make me a sweet car. I'm just saying, I'm rich. I could not be working. I could just be a professional superhero."

"That's Iron Man, not Batman. And both of them have jobs running giant corporations, which you'd suck at. But, sure, if you want to pretend you could spend most of your time living in a weird basement building creepy vigilante shit, we can pretend that's true. Does this mean I don't have to make your stuff anymore? Because that would be awesome. I would have so much more free time."

Clarke presses her shoulder against Raven's. "You would be _miserable_ if you couldn't make cool gadgets for me."

"I could make cool gadgets for _me_ ," Raven grumbles, looking down at the brace on her leg. "I could be Batman. But, nope, bum leg, so I get to be Oracle instead."

Clarke frowns. "I need to learn more superheroes."

Raven snorts. "You really do. There are so many of them, you're going to come up with a catchphrase or something and get sued, and then you're gonna be a broke vigilante English teacher." She cocks her head. "Seriously, high-school teacher by day, crime-fighter by night? You're gonna burn yourself out."

Clarke can't resist an opening like that, so she snaps her fingers, lets a small flame hovers over her fingertips. "I'm gonna burn something out."

Raven groans. "You were definitely born to be a superhero," says Raven, with a roll of her eyes. "You've got the fucking stupid quips _down_." She pauses. "Actually, come to think of it, that's good for high-school teachers too. Never mind, Griffin. You've found your calling. Both your callings."

Clarke raises her glass, and Raven clinks hers against it. "I'm the fucking _best_."

*

When Clarke was seventeen, her best friend Wells got stabbed, and she cauterized the wound herself, pulling fire out of her own hands without even knowing how. She knew all about metahumans, of course, had witnessed her father discovering his own powers, like something out of comic books. He had--has?--an innate understanding of how things worked, an ability to assemble and disassemble electronics, and she'd been tested too, once his powers had emerged, and found to be without any gifts of her own. But they must have missed something, because the evidence was undeniable. Personal pyrotechnics, any time she wanted.

In theory, she was supposed to register. Everyone was. There was an entirely new branch of government, Metahuman Affairs, and a guaranteed job for anyone with demonstrable powers who wanted one. At first, almost everyone did, but then the rumors began--that the jobs weren't as voluntary as they were made out to be, that half the people who took jobs traveled more and more, until they didn't come back at all. And Clarke had seen the truth of that firsthand; one day, her father went on a trip for work and never came back, no goodbye, no forwarding address.

So Clarke didn't register. Wells knew, because she'd saved his life, but he was her best friend, and he'd never tell. Raven found out their sophomore year of college, because they were roommates, and Clarke wasn't as careful as she should have been about practicing in private.

But all Raven had said was, "That's awesome. Can I help?"

And that's how she decided to become a superhero.

After all, someone had to do it.

*

Clarke is a good teacher. She _knows_ she's a good teacher. She did tutoring and TAing all throughout college, worked as a camp counselor, got a teaching certificate after she decided she was done with med school. She likes kids and kids like her. She's smart and capable and willing to teach to the tests, even though the tests suck, while still making sure the kids get to read some authors who aren't dead white dudes and learn critical thinking skills.

Still, the first week of school is so exhausting that when she gets home, she has absolutely no energy for going out and fighting crime. Raven is fucking smug as hell about it, of course, because she totally called it. It's just--she's getting up early and she's never taught any of this stuff before, and none of her lesson plans are going like she planned. She has a lot to do.

By Friday, she's pretty sure she'll at least be able to get her big hero debut in that night, which is, admittedly, later than she planned, but better late than never, right? She's totally worth the wait.

But then, right before she's about to finally head out, Jasper Jordan from the chemistry department sticks his head into her classroom and grins. "Oh, awesome, you are still here! We're going out to celebrate surviving the first week, you have to come!"

"Going out?" Clarke asks, dubious.

"Yeah, we're gonna get drinks, complain about the administration, probably Lincoln will hit on Bellamy's sister and piss him off. Assuming he's coming. Hey, Blake!" he yells, sticking his head out of Clarke's door. "Don't pretend you're not still here! We're gonna have fun! You're gonna have fun! You can't avoid fun!"

Clarke has passed by Mr. Blake's door, but they haven't actually been introduced yet. She theoretically likes him--he has a bunch of Far Side comics taped on his door, which she approves of--but she kind of thought he was a lot older than she was, what with the comics and, well, stereotypes about history teachers.

Maybe he's an older dude who likes to party. That wouldn't be weird at all.

"Bellamy!" Jasper yells again, and Clarke drags herself out of her chair and goes to stand in the door with him.

"Have you considered actually going over there?" she asks, knocking her shoulder again Jasper's. "I know yelling is fun--"

"I just like messing with him," says Jasper, grinning. "I went to high school with his sister, we go way back." He frowns. "Have you met Bellamy?"

"Not yet."

"You have to meet Clarke!" Jasper yells, taking her arm and dragging her down the hall. "You have coworkers, Bellamy! You are required to meet people! There are bylaws!"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jordan."

The guy who comes out of Bellamy Blake's classroom is only a few years older than Clarke, with a mess of curly black hair and dark eyes. He's loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top few collars of his shirt, and Clarke can't help thinking that's probably what he'd look like if he'd gotten dressed after a quickie on his desk. Which is a wildly inappropriate thought to be having about a new colleague.

"I know there's no one here to disturb, but you don't have to yell," Bellamy continues. His eyes flick to Clarke. "English, right?"

"Clarke Griffin," she says, offering her hand. She can be polite and professional. She was not thinking about him hooking up on his desk.

Bellamy looks at her hand for a minute, like he's not sure about it, but then he shakes. He has a lot of freckles, she can't help noticing. "Bellamy Blake." He looks back at Jasper. "What were you yelling about?"

"Drinks. Hanging out with Octavia. Showing Clarke a good time. Socialization, Bellamy! This is the year you're going to learn about friendship."

"God, it's like talking to a cartoon character," says Bellamy, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Fine. One drink. Lincoln better not hit on my sister."

"Lincoln is definitely gonna hit on your sister," says Jasper, cheerful. "It'll be fun."

Bellamy goes back into his room to grab his stuff, and he falls into step with Clarke behind Jasper as they leave. He's a few inches taller than she is, but he stands straight when he's walking, instead of sort of suspiciously hunching like he was earlier.

Clarke is not interested, definitely. Her coworker eye candy is Maya Vie, who's in her department, quiet and a little shy, the perfect _I will check you out from afar with no risk of it ever going anywhere_ coworker.

"So, English," Bellamy says. He considers her. "And you're, like--twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?"

Clarke frowns. "Twenty-seven, yeah. Why?"

"You worked for a few years in an office job, decided it wasn't for you, went back to school for a teaching degree, and you didn't know what you wanted to teach, so you went with English," he decides.

Okay, so, he's a dick. That's good. Clarke has spent years building up an immunity to hot guys who slowly reveal themselves to be dicks. Bellamy is refreshingly upfront about it. She can skip the attraction step entirely and get straight to the loathing.

"Whoa, Blake, save some charm for the bar!" says Jasper, in the tones of someone hoping to prevent an actual fistfight.

"I was in med school," Clarke says, voice deliberately easy. "How did you pick history? Not good enough at interacting with people who are actually alive?"

To her mild annoyance, Bellamy actually snorts, like they're sharing a joke. "You're going to love my sister," he says, and they run into Monty--biology--with a few other people, some she knows and some she doesn't, before she can respond. Maya is there, but she somehow still ends up sitting with Bellamy at the bar, the two of them camped out in front of his hot bartender sister with Lincoln from the math department.

"So, you know why I teach English?" she asks. She's not sure why she cares, except that she doesn't like him thinking he knows her.

"Did Jane Austen change your life?"

"I wish she'd changed yours."

"Hey, maybe she did. She taught me I should be a grumpy asshole, and then when I show a little humanity, everyone's so impressed I'm not a complete dick that they want to marry me." He takes a drink of beer. "So why do you teach English?"

"Because I had the worst English teacher ever, and I want to be better than he was."

Bellamy nods and taps his glass against hers. "Spite. I respect that."

"Your approval is definitely all I care about."

"You were the one who wanted to tell me. Clearly you care at least a little."

"That was also spite-based. Why history?" she asks. 

"Are you kidding? This is the best time to be a history teacher ever. We're _living_ in history," he says, gesturing like a beer. He looks like an orator or something.

"Oh no, you got him talking about history," says his sister, pulling her attention away from Lincoln to top off Clarke's beer. "This one is on the house, you're going to need it."

"Thanks, O," Bellamy says. "Do I get a free drink?"

"Nope!"

Clarke nudges him, curious in spite of herself. "Aren't we always living in history? Everything that already happened, that's history."

" _Every age thinks it's the modern age, but this one really is_ ," Bellamy says. "Tom Stoppard."

"Are you trying to prove you're better than me at English? Because I don't actually care."

"I'm saying--technology, the entire US government fucking itself over, and now the emergence of metahumans? This is the kind of shit people are going to look back on and write books about. This is _awesome_."

Clarke stiffens a little. "Isn't that why it would be cool to be _alive_ now? Why is it so much better for history teachers?"

"For one thing, I get to do all kinds of ominous _those who do not learn from history_ shit--"

"You should be a drama teacher," she grumbles.

He just grins. "I do supervise the spring play."

"Of course you do. So you basically spend your classes yelling about how we're doomed because we didn't learn from the mistakes of the past?"

"Basically. I had a field day with metahuman registration, let me tell you. It's great."

Clarke sees red, and she feels her hand get warmer on her glass. She snatches it back, furious, trying to get a handle on her emotions. "Great," she says, flat.

"Any time you can relate the material to--"

"To shit kids are _actually dealing with_? God, this isn't _history_ , Bellamy, this is bad shit happening to people right now, you can't--" She feels herself getting warm, and she stands, taking a few deep breaths. Bellamy looks vaguely shell-shocked, and she can't blame him, but she can't bring herself to feel bad either. "I'm gonna go," she says, keeping her voice calm. "It was nice to meet you," she adds, for some unfathomable reason. Like it wasn't a total fucking disaster to meet him.

She hears him saying something, but she needs to get back before she sets fire to something, so she ignores him. Clearly, it is a bad idea for her to talk to Bellamy Blake. She's always had a short temper, but it was never so dangerous before.

It's still early, and the anger and fear of discovery sobered her up pretty well, so by the time she's home, she thinks--yeah, she can go out tonight. She would _love_ to go out tonight.

Raven gives her a raise of eyebrows when she gets home. "I thought tonight was your big debut."

"It is," says Clarke.

"You look pissed."

"I went out with my coworkers. One of them's a dick."

"Hey, only one isn't bad. Like half my coworkers are dicks. Eat something before you go out. You know you--" She makes a face.

"You were going to say I burn calories, weren't you?"

"Shut up. What did the dick say?"

"How cool the metahuman registration shit is."

"Seriously? Is he into totalitarian regimes or what?"

"He's a history teacher. He thinks we're in a cool period, you know, historically speaking. Which--he's right, yeah, but it's not _history_ yet. You can't just say shit like that."

"Did you set him on fire?"

Clarke smiles ruefully. "Honestly, I came pretty close."

"Well, come on, I've got frozen pizza. We'll have pizza and, I dunno, vegetables. And then you can go out and see how you like fighting crime."

Raven is almost certainly the best possible friend a superhero could have. Not only is she awesome, she has what Clarke believes to be a milder form of her dad's own abilities, and Raven believes to be _natural, home-grown genius_. Either way, she loves making gadgets and shit, and doing complicated mathematical computations, so she figured out how Clarke could use her powers to _fly_ , because, apparently, generating fire is basically like having her own person jetpack, and she made Clarke's outfit and a utility belt. Which is definitely where she got the Batman thing.

"Have you got a name yet?" Raven asks, as she helps Clarke suit up.

"Firestorm?"

"DC."

"Phoenix?"

"Marvel."

"Flamegirl?"

"Dumb."

Clarke sighs. "How about just Flame?"

Raven considers, and then nods. "Probably not trademarked or anything. I'll google it, but, yeah, that's kind of cool. Go for it."

"These are the things no one warns you about when you take up vigilante-ism," she says, shaking her head. "All the cool names are trademarked." She looks down at herself. The costume is basically black body-armor, open around her mouth, and she _does_ look kind of like Batman. But that's because, according to Raven, if you're going to model yourself on a superhero, Batman's a good place to start. He wears _body armor_ , for a start and Clarke's all about that. She can light shit on fire, but she doesn't have any kind of mutant healing factor. She doesn't want to get shot.

Instead of the bat on her chest, she's got a flame she designed herself; it glows a soft red, unless she turns it off for stealth purposes, and it looks fucking badass, if she does say so herself.

The whole look is really awesome, honestly. She might not be any good, as a superhero, but if she fails, at least she'll look cool doing it.

"Let's test the radio," Raven says, picking up her transceiver. "Go into the other room and close the door. I'm not worried about range, as long as it works, it should work anywhere in the city."

Clarke's pretty sure nothing Raven has done in her entire life is anything less than perfect, but she's just as sure Raven is nervous and putting off letting Clarke go, so she humors her. Once everything has been tested, again, one more time, Raven runs out of excuses, and she has to let Clarke go.

"I'll be fine," Clarke says.

"Or you'll get arrested as a metahuman and I'll have to bust your ass out of jail," Raven mutters.

"Which you'd totally love. You definitely want to bust me out of jail and have to hide from the government. You are completely prepared for that situation."

"I am, because I'm the best. Don't get killed, okay?"

"I promise not to get killed." She salutes. "See you when I get back."

"You better."

Clarke isn't the first costumed hero to appear in the last fifteen years, since metahumans started to gain prominence. Teams have arisen in the biggest cities--New York has Team Manhattan, Boston has the Patriot Sox, who are constantly trying to get a new name to stick without success, Chicago has the Field Team, and so on. Seattle has a few scattered heroes, but none of them get that much publicity, and things have been quiet recently, which is what Clarke is looking for. She thinks she'll just be able to slot in and do her thing, undisturbed.

And she does, for about three hours. She doesn't get to fight much crime; the closest she comes to real heroics is intimidating a mugger, but he's just a kid, and she thinks the scare he gets from a fireball landing next to his feet when he's intimidating a lady is probably enough to set him back on the path of righteousness, so she doesn't even bother with the police. She hasn't heard of any big metahuman criminals in Seattle, but she assumes there are a few. The community tends to try to keep them quiet. One of the problems with the metahuman registration act's incredible sketchiness is that, short of murdering something, it's hard for one metahuman to do anything bad enough that any of their fellow metahumans really want to turn them into authorities. Clarke doesn't approve of anyone using their powers for evil, but she's not convinced if the government gets their hands on these people, their powers will be put to any better use.

So she's just as glad to not have to deal with any of that tonight. Tonight is for getting a feel for the town, testing out how much sustained flight tires her out, compared to running. This is probably why Batman has a car. If you can't fly, getting around is exhausting.

She's relaxing in a tree in the park near her apartment, considering her plan for tomorrow, when someone sits down next to her. Which is honestly a little surprising. Clarke tends to be pretty aware of her surroundings. But then she sees the guy is a meta himself, so maybe he has some kind of sneaking-related abilities. 

He's not someone she recognizes, apparently hasn't gotten much publicity, but he looks like a capable kind of guy. Solid build, broad shoulders and impressive pecs and arms, visible through his costume, which is--pretty cheap, honestly. It's one of those weird spandex suits she's seen sold online in navy, which is, well--at least he's in good shape. She can tell even in the dark that he is working that ugly spandex suit. He's cut openings around his mouth and eyes and bordered them in silver cloth, and, like her, he has his hands bare. The detailing manages to pull him back from _actual slasher movie serial killer_ , but he still looks a little bit like he repurposed an old Halloween costume.

"I assume if you wanted to fight you would have gotten the jump on me when you had the chance," she remarks. Raven built something in to her suit change the pitch of her voice, and it's kind of weird, hearing herself, voice slightly higher, with a different pitch to it.

"I figured I'd ask if you were up to no good first," he says. His voice is deep and even, but it sounds a little fake too, like he's trying to change it without the benefit of technology.

"Do they generally tell you, if they're up to no good?"

"Well, three people have walked by on cell phones and you haven't tried to mug any of them, so I figured you were either asleep or taking a break. And most people who are up to no good don't take breaks to chill. So, yeah. I think you're trying to be a superhero, not a supervillain."

"That's some decent deductive reasoning," she says. "And I assume if you were planning to use your powers for evil, you wouldn't be hanging out in a tree with me."

"Basically," he agrees. He offers his hand. "Tempest."

"Flame," she says, and makes a face. Her mouth is exposed, so he catches it and laughs. He has a nice laugh, lighter than his voice, which just confirms her suspicions that he's trying to deepen it. Christian Bale has a lot to answer for. She is not generally into the whole Batman-voice thing.

"First time introducing yourself?" he asks.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You get used to it after a while. Feels slightly less ridiculous."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"Fair enough." He looks at her; his eyes are so blue she thinks those probably aren't natural either. But they are striking. "So, I'm guessing you have fire powers."

"What gave it away?" she asks, dry, and he grins.

"Like you said, I'm pretty decent at deductive reasoning."

Clarke ducks her head, laughing softly. "Yeah, yeah. Genius, right there. Do you have water powers, or just like blue?"

"I have water powers _and_ I like blue," he says, laughing again.

"So, how do those work?" she asks. "I can make fire, but from what pop culture tells me, if you have water powers, you can't just make water."

"I can't, and it sucks. I figured you at least had to carry a lighter around or something." He twists around so Clarke can see he's wearing a Camelback, like he's going to run a marathon, and she can't help giggling. He is the dorkiest superhero she has ever seen. "I know, shut up!" he says. "Not everyone won the superhero lottery."

"I can fly," she can't help saying. "Not for too long, but--I'm my own jetpack."

"Figures," he says. "This is why people think fire is cooler than water."

"It's hotter than water," she can't help saying, and he sort of stares at her for a second before he starts to laugh again. 

"Wow, okay," he says. "You've got me there." He smiles at her again. "So, uh, I'm about done for tonight, but if you want someone to show you around tomorrow, I'll be here around nine."

"Is there any reason I should trust you?" Clarke asks, regarding him. Tempest seems--good. But he could be a creep who's toying with her.

"Nope," he says, easy. She stares at him, and he shrugs, unconcerned. "You know nothing about me, I'm not telling you anything about me, so all you've got is my word, and I can't prove that's worth anything. I can't give you a single good reason to trust me. It's up to you."

She considers him for a minute and then says, "Can I see you do something cool with water?"

He laughs. "Yeah, sure. Got any requests?"

"Whatever's your favorite."

He thinks about it for a minute and then grabs the spout for the Camelback. It's been modified a little, more like a watergun than a canteen, so when he opens the spout, a quick burst of water comes out. He waves his hand at the spray and it separates into individual droplets, scattering across the sky in front of them. He guides them carefully, arranging them into constellations, and then freezes them, a perfect array of frozen stars.

"I used to do that for my baby sister," he says. "When she couldn't sleep. Lucky for me eleven was still young enough for her to think it was the coolest thing ever. But I don't get to do it much these days. Not a lot of practical applications."

"I'm a lot older than eleven and it's still pretty cool," Clarke admits. "How much concentration does it take to keep them up there?"

"Not much," he says. "The more there are the harder it is, but there's this kind of--" He gestures vaguely. "Field of influence, I guess. Where everything just does what I say."

"Must be nice," Clarke teases, and he smiles at her, wry.

"The one thing in the universe I can control," he says, and lets the ice drops clatter onto the ground under the tree. 

"So why do you think you can trust me?" Clarke asks.

"My incredible deductive reasoning," says Tempest, and then he smiles, ducking his head. "I don't know. I just do."

"Okay," says Clarke, nodding. "Tomorrow at nine. Here."

"Cool." He considers. "Hey, will you fly away? I wanna see your jetpack."

"I guess it's the least I can do," she says, magnanimous, and hears his low whistle of approval as she takes off. 

Clarke grins the whole way home.

*

Raven is not nearly as thrilled about Tempest. Clarke can't blame her, exactly--it is probably a risk, hanging out with a random guy in a mask, but since she's also wearing a mask around, it feels weird to hold that against him. And when they google _Tempest Seattle metahuman_ , they do get a few hits indicating he's a good guy--rescuing people from fires, a few non-meta robbers left frozen to walls for the police, that kind of thing. It's not enough to completely soothe Raven's fretting, so Clarke agrees to leave her radio on while she and Tempest are together, and that seems to satisfy her.

That mostly means Raven overhears a lot of Tempest talking shop, telling Clarke which parts of the city tend to have the most crime with the fewest police, the places it's both safest and most important for them to control, showing her shortcuts cops don't know about. Clarke figures that Raven will zone out in no time, given it's pretty boring with no visuals, but they do get to break up a couple fights and help a lost kid find her house. So there's at least a little excitement to keep Raven from falling asleep.

They don't set up another time to meet, but Tempest says he'll be around on Monday night, working the same basic route, so he's at least making it easy for Clarke to find him. And that's nice. It'll be nice to have an ally. 

Raven seems to agree, because when Clarke gets home, she just says, "Okay, he's fine. You can hang out with him if you want."

"See, I told you. I have awesome instincts. He's a good guy."

"Yeah, I'm not going that far yet. But he wants to bone you, not kill you, so it's probably safe."

Clarke considers arguing the point, but, honestly, that's probably better than Raven thinking Tempest wants to murder her, so she'll take it.

"I'm not gonna seek him out or anything," she says, stripping out of her armor and changing into her pajamas. "But we have the same stomping grounds. I wouldn't mind seeing him again."

*

Her second week goes a lot better. She goes out patrolling on Monday and Tuesday, takes a break on Wednesday, and still manages to get her grading and lesson plans under control in her downtime. She's honestly feeling like a pretty functional adult superhero on Thursday.

And then Bellamy Blake sits down next to her at the all-staff meeting that morning and gives her a muffin, which totally ruins her good mood. Not that she minds getting random muffins, but--she feels like she might have been kind of rough on Bellamy. He was a dick, but she lost her temper and ran away, which was the right thing to do considering her powers, but he doesn't know about those. So she can't help feeling a little sheepish.

"What's this?" she asks, trying to sound friendly.

"Apology," says Bellamy, shrugging. "I know I came across as pretty--dismissive. About some stuff. And I'm not." He worries his lip, and then says, "I'm guessing you know someone who registered?"

It's public record, so it seems pointless to lie about it. It's not incriminating or anything; it's happened to plenty of people. "My dad."

He nods. "What happened to him?"

"Good question."

"So, missing in action?"

"So they tell me." She worries her lip, but--this part is public record too, and it might help him understand why she was so upset. Without making him think she has problems with her temper. "My mom's Abby Griffin."

His eyes widen, as she expected. He clearly keeps up with this stuff, and her mother's name is a familiar one for anyone interested in metahumans, the government face of a whole host of questionable decisions. "So, she registered her husband--"

"He registered himself," says Clarke. "Once he found out about his powers, he figured our family should put its money where its mouth was."

"And then he still disappeared?"

Clarke smiles wryly. "You can't accuse her of favoritism."

"Jesus."

She looks down at the muffin. "I know you weren't--I know you didn't mean it was some cool, fun thing everyone was doing. But--"

"Yeah, no, it's fine," says Bellamy. "I'm a dick a lot of the time. I've accepted it." He clucks his tongue, watching the other teachers file in. "Some of the students have people who went in too. Usually the poorer ones, parents doing it for the steady work and the stipend. It tends to help them, seeing the historical context, making parallels between stuff that happened to other people and what's going on now. It makes them feel like it might get better."

Clarke smiles a little. "I get that."

"Yeah?"

"I teach _English_ ," she says. "We're all about totalitarian regimes and dystopian hellscapes."

He lets out another little snort of laughter, smiling at her sidelong, and Clarke finds herself smiling back. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Fair enough. I'm still sorry about Friday."

"Me too," she says. "And thanks for the muffin."

It feels like that should be the start of a new chapter for them, the beginning of a tentative friendship, but that lasts all of ten minutes into the meeting, at which point they're yelling at each other over some budgeting thing. But annoyed as she gets at him (and it's very, very annoyed), she at least doesn't even come close to bursting into flames. So, all in all, it's a vastly improved relationship with Bellamy Blake.

*

The first time Flame hits the news, she's with Tempest. There's a new metahuman in town who can walk through solid objects, which means he's basically just wandering around, stealing whatever shit he wants. It's a problem both for the obvious reasons and because it's unclear what, exactly, the local metas should do with him if they find him.

"It might be a turn-him-in situation," Clarke says, sighing. She and Tempest are watching the bank Raven thinks is the most likely target for tonight. "I just don't know what else we can do with him."

"I don't know what they can do with him either," Tempest says, frowning. "Other than use him to steal shit for them instead of from them."

Clarke rubs her face, and then checks to make sure her mask is still on. She likes Tempest, but not enough she wants to give him information about her real self. "I know, but--if he wants to steal, we can't stop him. We can't keep him. I don't want to kill him. The police can't hold him, and even if they could--"

"What do you think of Abby Griffin?" he asks, surprising Clarke enough that she actually startles.

"What?"

"Just wondering."

"I don't trust her," Clarke says, instant, and then tastes bile in her mouth. She hates how easy it is to say that, how natural.

Tempest doesn't notice, of course; he's still watching the bank. "Yeah, I don't either. And if we don't trust her, what are we doing giving anyone to her?"

"I know. I'm just waiting for you to give me another option."

"Yeah," he says, sounding tired. Clarke's not sure how old he is--a few years older than she is, she thinks, but he has that prematurely old thing going on that Bellamy does, where she can easily see him sitting on a deck chair telling hooligans to get off his lawn.

She skirts away from that comparison; thinking about Bellamy when she's with Tempest or vice-versa always makes her stomach twist, and if she lets herself dwell on it, she might try to figure out why. And she knows that's dangerous territory.

"Do you know any of the other local metas?"

"We're not close," he says, worrying his lip. "I don't trust them to make this choice more than I trust us, that's for sure."

"Maybe they'd have an idea."

Tempest is quiet for another minute and then says, "They killed someone. Right around when I first got my powers."

Clarke's breath catches. "Why?"

"Because they couldn't deal with her. She was a year younger than I was, she had--it's kind of funny, in the worst way. She had bad breath. She just--opened her mouth and bad things happened. Plants died, people got sick. It was probably the right thing to do, honestly, but--I was eighteen. I can't forget it. We're not killing him, not for-- _things_."

"Okay," says Clarke, letting out a breath, understanding suddenly why he found her, why he doesn't seem to spend time with the other vigilantes of Seattle, why he wanted to make sure they got to this meta before anyone else did. It might have been the right call, but he was a kid who'd just found his own abilities, and a bunch of adults killed a girl, because she got some horrible power she couldn't deal with. "So, we'll figure it out."

He flashes her a tight smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He lets out a long breath. "Okay. Let's just hope he shows up."

"Yeah." There's still a heaviness in the air, so she says, "Eighteen, so you've been doing this for, what, ten, fifteen years?"

"Fifteen," he says. "Powers woke up when I was seventeen."

Clarke nods. "Me too. Maybe that's when the elemental ones come in." 

"Maybe."

She pauses and then asks, "Fifteen years and your outfit still looks like a Halloween costume?"

He barks out a laugh. "Shut the fuck up."

Tempest's plan is about as solid a plan as they're going to get, as far as Clarke's concerned; he figures that the guy can move through matter, but moving through fire doesn't do much good when you can't do anything about heat. Ditto ice. So their basic plan is to get him away from the city, trap him, and--give him a stern talking to. Or something.

They'll figure it out.

The footage that ends up going viral is about thirty seconds of the three of them--her, Tempest, and the kid who walks through walls--doing some pretty cool parkour shit, Tempest dragging a line of ice out of fountains and fire hydrants as he skates down the street, Clarke tossing fireballs, the kid phasing through things but still being herded toward an empty lot they found earlier, far from other buildings and anything that might start a real fire. The camera loses them before then, which is just as well, because the actual confrontation ends up being pretty unheroic. Clarke's just as glad no one else is going to see it.

"Fuck, what's even burning?" the kid asks. "There's no wood or anything."

"My force of will," Clarke says. He tried going through, mildly burned himself, and now seems to be sulking. "Are you not even wearing a mask?"

"Who cares?"

Clarke glances at Tempest, who rolls his eyes like he's annoyed with the whole situation.

"Government cares," says Tempest. "They see your face and they'll be on your ass until they find you."

"And then what? You think they're gonna lock me up?"

"I think they don't want you wandering around," says Tempest. He looks back at Clarke. "How do you feel about blackmail?"

She considers it. "Pretty positive."

"Cool, me too." He turns his attention back to the kid. "Here's what's gonna happen: I'm gonna knock you out. I'm gonna take your picture, look at your wallet, get your name and address. If we hear about you pulling this shit in our city again, I'm reporting you to the metahuman registration agency. Got it?"

There's a long pause, and then the kid says, "How are you gonna knock me out?"

It mostly involves Clarke dropping a block of ice on his head, which is a little difficult with her hands on fire, but whatever. She makes it work. Tempest puts out the fire and they check the kid's wallet--John Murphy, 24, California native--and take his picture, and then drag him out of the abandoned lot before the police show up.

"Not bad, for our first blackmailing," Tempest says.

"Who said it was my first blackmailing?" Clarke asks, and he grins at her.

The next morning at school, she finds out about the video. They're being called Fire and Ice, which is honestly fair enough, and it's all her first-period freshmen want to talk about.

"His name's _Tempest_ ," says Fox. "I remember him. He put out a fire near my house."

"She probably started it," says Myles. "So he could get the credit for putting it out."

Clarke rubs her forehead. "Is this really that exciting? You guys have seen vigilantes before, right? I thought the novelty had worn off."

"We haven't had a new one in forever," says Charlotte. "And they're so _cool_."

Clarke has to another a smile at that. "Yeah, well. So is Sherman Alexie. Come on, focus."

Finding she's the star of a viral video should be the weirdest thing to happen to her that day, but Bellamy comes to visit her during her planning period, which is somehow even weirder. Because, honestly, everything about Bellamy is weird. They still argue a lot, in staff meetings, when they go out on Fridays, when they run into each other. He gets on her nerves, and she kind of wants to strangle him.

But--she kind of likes him too. They might argue when they're together, but they're also always _together_ when they're together. He keeps taking the seat next to her at staff meetings, and they keep ending up next to each other at the bar, involved in loud and only semi-coherent debates about books and movies and basically whatever they come up with, and Clarke knows that's as much on her as it is on him.

Raven says Clarke just likes people who are willing to stand up to her, and that might also be a factor.

"You don't do any clubs, right?" he asks her by way of greeting.

"Not yet."

"So you have a lot of free time."

"Or I have a rich and rewarding life outside of school."

"Yeah, we count that as free time," he says, flashing her a grin. "I need help with the Halloween dance."

"What about it?"

"Planning, decorating, chaperoning, etc. Call it three nights a week after school for the next two weeks, and then working the dance on Saturday."

"And there's no one else you could possibly ask."

"You can't put off it off forever," he says. "You have to get involved with extracurriculars at some point. I'm doing you a favor."

"I think you just don't want to do the work yourself."

He grins. "I'm not hearing a no, here," he says, and she sighs. 

"If I say yes, will you leave me alone for the rest of the period so I can actually plan, or do we have to start right away?"

"I'll leave. Just come by my room after school, we can do logistics."

It's the first thing she's planning on telling Raven when she gets home, because Raven loves gossiping about how weird Bellamy is, but Raven is still focused on the video. It's harder than Clarke expected, switching between her two lives. She's always herself, but when she's Flame, it's hard to remember she has grading due, and when she's thinking about dance logistics, she doesn't feel like the newest superhero sensation.

But Raven greets her with, "Do you have your boyfriend's measurements?" which is enough to--honestly, it's really just confusing.

"No," she says, slow. "For several reasons. What?"

"Whatever this Tempest guy is wearing is fucking tragic. Get his measurements for me and I'm making him some armor. If you guys are going to be partners, he's not going to look like such a loser."

Clarke bites back a smile. "Maybe he doesn't want matching outfits."

"If he wants to keep that ugly spandex thing, you're dumping him. I don't care how useful he is."

*

October basically flies by. Between regular class stuff, dance stuff, and superhero stuff, Clarke feels like she barely has time to sleep. Tempest agrees to let Raven make him a new costume, and when he sees it, asks Clarke if her designer is single and would be willing to marry him.

"Probably not without an extensive background check," Clarke says, patting him on the arm. "Besides, she's been flirting with some dude she met on the Internet."

"So, weird guys she's never seen who probably live in their parents' basement are something she's into," he says. "That's what I'm getting. I'm her type."

"Yeah, but do you play League of Legends?"

"No."

"Then you're out of luck."

He heaves an over-dramatic sigh. "I'll live. Just tell her I'll love her forever from afar, this thing is awesome."

"That sounds like you're stalking her. I'll say something like that, but less creepy."

"You are the best partner ever," he says, and they high-five.

The dance passes without incident, aside from a few couples dancing way to close, and one kid who's got a flask. Bellamy confiscates it and the two of them share it as they clean up the gym, which is oddly companionable. In fact, once the whole dance thing is over, Clarke finds she kind of misses it. And, if she's honest, by _it_ , she really means Bellamy. They still bicker, he still manages to piss her off at least once every time they talk, but it's kind of in a fun way.

At some point, he became her favorite coworker, and instead of dwelling on that, she starts hanging out in his room during their planning period.

The first time, he asks what she's doing there, and she says her room is too quiet. The next few times, he teases her a little, but by the second week, he just greets her with a "Hey, Clarke," or, more often, something along the lines of, "Fuck, I think this kid must have been high when he wrote this essay," and then a guilty glance at the door.

It's nice. Companionable. They're not the kind of friends who hang out on weekends, but Clarke doesn't really have friends like that who don't know about her powers, so it's really just Raven and Wells, and Wells is in DC, trying to save the world, despite her mom and his dad's best efforts to steer them into a dystopian hellscape.

So, yeah, she's not friends with Bellamy. She just likes hanging out with him, and argues with him all the time, and sometimes wonders if he wants to make out.

It's not a big deal.

She's in his room, sitting on his desk and watching him play some weird game on his iPad, because they are responsible, mature educators, when her phone buzzes and--

"Oh fuck."

"My door's open, some kid is gonna hear and be totally scandalized," says Bellamy. He frowns at her, forehead crinkling. "What's wrong? Everything okay?"

"It's my mom. Must be time for our annual call."

"Oh, uh--do you want me to go? I can--"

"It's your room, you don't have to leave. Just close the door?"

"Sure." He gets up and does as he's told, hovering anxiously, and Clarke smiles at him. "Just grade or play your game or something. I'll be quick."

She picks up right before it hits voicemail. "Hey, Mom. I'm at school, can this wait?"

"It won't take long."

"That really wasn't the question," she says. Bellamy's back on his iPad, but she can see the tension in his shoulders. He's worried about her, and it makes her smile, even talking to her mother. "But I'm in my planning period, so I have a couple minutes."

"I was just thinking, it's November. It's probably time to talk about Thanksgiving."

"What's there to talk about? I'm having dinner with Raven and Wells, like always."

"Clarke--"

"I'll be home for Christmas," she says. It's the holiday she gives her mother, and it's--awkward. Clarke loves her mother, she truly does, but--her mother has to _know_. Her mother knows what happened to her father, and she won't tell. And Clarke doesn't know how to deal with that. Her mother let something happen to her father, and she won't even tell Clarke where he was when it happened. If there's any chance he'll ever come back. "I just don't get that long at Thanksgiving. It's not worth flying somewhere."

"I'll pay if you--"

"It's not the money. I don't have time. And I like spending Thanksgiving with Raven and Wells. It's a nice tradition."

She doesn't know why her mother keeps bothering--she has dinner with Thelonious and some of their work friends, Clarke has dinner with her own friends. That's how it's been for years. They still see each other for Christmas. Occasionally over the summer, too.

It's maybe not how kids and parents are supposed to be, but it's the best Clarke can do.

"If you don't want to come here, maybe I could come there."

Clarke thinks about her and Raven's apartment, which is fucking _full_ of half-assembled gadgets and body armor and superhero shit. It's possible Clarke could clear it out enough that her mother wouldn't notice, but--that's the other problem, honestly. The superhero stuff is as important a part of her life as teaching, and not only does her mother not know about it, but if she ever found out, she'd have to--

She'd disappear to parts unknown. She has no idea what would happen to her.

"Our place isn't really big enough for everyone to stay," Clarke hedges.

"I could get a hotel."

"I don't know if--"

"Clarke," she says, and she sounds so heartbroken. Clarke doesn't know how to deal with it. "I haven't seen you in almost a year."

Bellamy's arm is around her shoulders, warm and sudden, _solid_ , and apparently he's got a lot of muscle under his button-down shirts. Which she did not need to know, but--the rest is nice. She leans against him, grateful, and closes her eyes. "If you want to come, you're welcome," she says. "I didn't know--I didn't know it was so important to you."

"I'll look into hotels and let you know. It's--thank you, Clarke. I'm looking forward to seeing you."

"Me too. I, uh--I have stuff to do. I need to go," she says. "But I'll email you my schedule for break." She wets her lips. "It'll be nice to see you."

"I'll talk to you soon. I love you, Clarke."

"You too."

Bellamy lets go of her as soon as she hangs up, moves away, a flush on his cheeks. Clarke smiles a little. 

"What, you do something actually nice and considerate for once and now you're embarrassed? You need to work on appropriate reactions to things, Blake."

"Everything okay?" he asks, straightening some books that absolutely do not need to be straightened.

"She's coming for Thanksgiving, apparently."

"I hear parents are supposed to do that."

"Yours don't?"

"Never knew my dad, Mom died when I was seventeen," Bellamy says. "We lived with O's dad until she hit eighteen, and then he registered as a metahuman to help her pay for college, so we don't see him much either."

"Oh." She gives him a wry smile. "So, I guess you don't want to meet my mom."

"He's not actually gone," Bellamy says. "I mean, he's mostly off doing--whatever it is registered metas do. But we hear from him sometimes. He doesn't usually make it home for holidays, though."

Clarke nods. "Sorry for, you know, taking an awkward personal call on your desk." She pauses, and can't help adding, "And thanks for the hug. You should hug people more. You're not actually terrible at it."

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too. "Don't you have work to do or something? Get the hell out."

When it comes to awkward personal shit, apparently when it rains, it pours. Less than a week after her mother calls, Clarke has her first encounter with one of the other Seattle metas.

In retrospect, it's weird that it's taken this long. She's been around for over two months, and Tempest is the only one she's seen. The two of them have gotten filmed a few more times, made the local news, and they even managed to get their preferred names sorted out, even if #fireandice remains the dominant hashtag for the two of them together.

The other heroes have to know about her, probably more than she knows about them. They don't have a cute team name, and they're older, quieter. They don't seem to like the spotlight.

Clarke doesn't think she'd really trust them, even if Tempest had never said a word. They just don't feel like good guys to her. She's never seen them trying to help anyone. She's never seen them get involved. They don't have a huge following, like the New York and Chicago teams, and they don't seem interested in recruiting new members, or making their city a better place.

And they killed a seventeen-year-old girl, because they couldn't figure out what else to do with her. That's something to remember too.

She recognizes the one who comes to find her from her Seattle research. He goes by Vector, because he can teleport, appearing and disappearing anywhere, so long as he has a direct line of sight. 

Maybe she would have trusted him, if he sat down next to he in a tree like Tempest had. But he wears his costume like a business suit, and Clarke can't imagine him ever just coming to hang out.

"Vector," she says, polite and cheerful. "It's an honor."

"We've been hearing quite a lot about you recently," he says, inclining his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to make it out to meet you sooner."

"That's fine," she says, keeping the same friendly tone. "I've been doing all right."

"Yes, you and Tempest seem to be quite the team."

"Well, once we figured out the fire and water thing, it just made sense," says Clarke.

Vector's mouth twitches, like he recognizes that was a joke and knows he should acknowledge it. Clarke thinks she should be fairer to the guy, but, honestly, she thinks even without Tempest, he'd give her a bad vibe. Killing a kid--she can believe that had to be done. She'd believe good people could do that. But if this guy had showed up and said he was on her side, she wouldn't have believed him. He might not be a supervillain, but he's not on her side.

"We haven't always had the best relationship with Tempest," he says. "I'd hate for that to extend to you."

"Honestly, I don't think about you guys much," she says, with a shrug. It's not a lie--she's never sought them out, and she doesn't see any reason to. "I don't see you on patrols or anything, so--"

"But people see you," says Vector. There's an odd tone to his voice, and Clarke feels her hackles rise. "You're much flashier than Tempest was by himself. He was essentially--if you'll pardon the term--a fireman. He saved kittens from trees and got babies out of burning buildings. But the two of you, you get _attention_. A cute name on Twitter. Fans. Do you know what having a team does for a city, Flame?"

"Increase tourist revenue, probably," she says, contemplative. She gathers a small spark of fire in her hand, out of his sight, a comforting, familiar warmth against her palm.

"Before you, no one heard about metahuman activity in Seattle, and that made people believe there wasn't any. You would think that would increase crime, but it doesn't. When you have high-profile vigilantes, other metas want to try their luck. We made our presence known and then, once we were established, we kept out of the news. And that is good for Seattle, Flame."

"This is starting to sound like a threat," Clarke observes.

"It's something to consider," says Vector. "It doesn't become a threat unless you come to the wrong conclusions."

And then he's gone.

Since Raven made Tempest his new armor, he's on their radio too, which is nice, because she still doesn't have his telephone number or anything. Obviously.

She gets away from the area, into a roof, tucked away, out of line of sight from most things, and turns on her headset. "Tempest, you around?"

Relief washes over her when he responds instantly. "Yeah, what's up?"

"We need to talk. Where are you?"

She gets to him ten minutes later, and he takes one look at her and says, "That bad?"

She smiles, wry. "It's been a weird week. Vector came to give me a talking to."

Tempest stiffens. "What did he say?"

"We're too high profile and it's putting the city in danger. He thinks we'll bring metas who want to try their hand at beating us. And it sounded like they were willing to stop us, if they thought they had to."

Tempest rubs his face. "Sounds about right."

"You got that talk too?"

"Not in so many words. It wasn't just--that girl, you know, I get it. I'm still always going to find it creepy as hell that a bunch of adults stood around deciding if they should murder a seventeen-year-old kid like they were talking about where to go for dinner, but I understood why they did what they did. But after that--they were more worried about maintaining the appearance of order than they were with order. Their part of the city, they strike deals, they pay people off, they call the police. That's what they do."

"That's why you gave me the route my second day," Clarke says. "Because you didn't want me to go into their territory."

"They don't care much about the poorer parts of the city. There's always crime in poor neighborhoods. They said it was an acceptable loss. That's when I left." He smiles a little. "Those are my neighborhoods. My sister lives around here. I wasn't going to give up on them."

Clarke smiles. "Me neither." She considers. "You know, I remember I was reading the comments on superhero article--"

"Bad idea."

"Shut up. Someone was asking why superheroes cared so much about their cities, like, he could move whenever and he didn't care, why would anyone be this connected to their place? And I thought it was kind of weird too. But this is what we can take care of, right? Our part of the city. This is ours."

"This is ours," he agrees. "And they don't get to tell us how to take care of it."

"Nope." She offers her fist, and he bumps it, and they just stay there for a while, leaning against the wall together, watching their half of Seattle.

It might be the half no one else wanted, but they want it now. And they're keeping it.

*

"Twenty bucks," says Clarke.

"No bet."

"Come on, if you win, you get twenty bucks!"

Bellamy squints at her. "How poor do you think I am?"

"Why would I think you're poor?"

"You think I'm this desperate for twenty bucks."

"Hey, I'm rich and I want twenty bucks. Who doesn't want twenty bucks?"

He snorts. "Okay, fine. But I'm going to lose the bet, so why would I do it? Miller's my best friend. He's definitely going to ask Monty out. And betting against his happiness? What kind of dick would I have to be?"

Clarke perks up. "Is this where I get to tell you how many different kids of dick you are? Because I've got a list."

He hooks his arm around her neck, rough, a classic big-brother move, and Clarke doesn't work very hard to dislodge him. He's warm and he smells good, and she's basically willing to admit at this point that she's very fond of him.

"This is definitely on the list, by the way," she tells him.

"Of course it is." He considers. "You're rich?"

"Pretty rich."

"I guess you would be, with your mom." That thought sobers him up, and he lets go of her and clears his throat. "Actually, uh--that reminds me. When's she coming?"

"Tuesday to Saturday."

"O's having a party Saturday night, if you're free," he says, a little awkward. "I don't know when your mom's leaving. It's part of her _Lincoln isn't moving fast enough so I'm taking the lead_ initiative." He gives her a contemplative look. "If you really want to bet on people's love lives, I'll put twenty on Octavia making the first move."

"Deal," Clarke says. "Lincoln and I are totally pals. I'm supporting him."

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but shakes her hand before turning back to his beer. "Yeah, uh, anyway, if you want to come to the party, that's cool. O wanted me to invite you."

"You know you could just say you'd like it if I came. I won't think you're any less of a dick."

"Fine, I want you to come," he snaps, almost making it out like a threat. Clarke kind of adores him, honestly. Raven is, thankfully, still convinced Clarke's got some weird, superhero thing going with Tempest, and Clarke likes Tempest, but he's not a _person_ to her, and she assumes he feels the same way about her. Tempest is like a cartoon character or something, cool and fun to spend time with, but he disappears when she goes back to the real world.

Besides, he's fun, but he's not quite as prickly and stupid as Bellamy. It's part of being a cartoon character.

Which is why she says, "Yeah, of course I'll be there," even though Saturday is usually one of her patrol nights. It's a holiday week, Tempest might not even be in town. They'll both be on weird schedules. And, well--Bellamy. She bumps her shoulder against his. "Wouldn't miss it," she says, and he gives her a wide, relieved smile.

"Cool. I'll text you the details."

She's planning to just tell Tempest she'll be out of town for Thanksgiving--trying to go out while her mother is in town seems like a recipe for disaster--but he beats her to the punch. "I heard Abby Griffin's going to be in town over Thanksgiving," he says, and Clarke nearly falls out of the sky. Jetpack hands are hard to maintain when she's surprised.

"What? Where did you hear that?"

"There was an announcement for the local metahuman registration department," he says, easy. "I keep up with them. Just so I'm informed." He shrugs a little, maybe embarrassed. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

"I don't know if keeping tabs on people who want to arrest you is _safe_."

"Fair enough. Either way, they're probably going to be on high alert with the big boss around, so I think we should probably just take Thanksgiving off. Come back on Monday." He offers her a wry smile. "We deserve a break, right?"

"Yeah," says Clarke. "We deserve a break. But keep your radio on for emergencies," she adds, brisk. "I'll get Delphi to route it to my cell phone, I--I've got relatives coming, they don't know, so I can't just--"

"I get it," he says, gentle. "Don't worry about it."

"If you want to get a burner cellphone so she can reroute yours too, we can. Just get me the number before then."

"Not a bad idea, yeah." He puts his arm around her and gives her a quick squeeze, making her smile. "Not a big fan of holidays, huh?"

"Complicated family shit. They support registration, so it's--complicated."

He nods. "I'd say you can talk to me, but that kind of ruins the anonymity thing. So I hope you have someone you can talk to."

"I do, yeah. But thanks anyway."

"Well," he says, pulling away, voice even gruffer than usual. "What are partners for?"

*

The week off is honestly kind of nice. Wells comes up on Sunday, which is the start of her hero vacation, if not her actual vacation, and she and him and Raven hang out on the couch watching _Kingslayer_ , this truly awful hour-long drama about a lone vigilante who tries to hide his life from his wife, friends, and the government while also taking down a nefarious drug ring, on Netflix, while Clarke points out all the ways being a real vigilante is simultaneously way more interesting and way more boring. Raven tells Wells all about Tempest and how he and Clarke are totally going to get married, and Clarke rolls her eyes and doesn't bring up Bellamy at all.

Her mother shows up on Tuesday, and Clarke meets her at the airport. She looks like she always does these days, worn out and gray, like the color drained out of her at some point and she can't get it back. It tugs at Clarke, because--she wants her mother to be happy. She does. But her mother is convinced this metahuman stuff is what she's supposed to be doing, and Clarke wants it to crash and burn, to be rehauled, to just--stop.

It's not even a bad idea, that's the worst part. Plenty of dangerous people have powers. But whatever her mother is doing, it's not working. And every time Clarke tries to tell her that, it doesn't go well, so she's just stopped trying.

Still, Abby brightens at the sight of her daughter, and Clarke gives her a big hug. Her entire life is basically a weird disaster, but--her mother is her mother.

"It's good to see you, sweetheart," says her mother.

"You too, Mom. We're getting dinner with Raven and Wells, and then I can take you to the hotel."

"I appreciate you coming to get me. I didn't feel like dealing with a rental car."

"Yeah, of course."

"How's school going? How are your students?"

"They're good. It's good. I'm a little worried about one of my freshmen, she's been struggling a little the last few weeks. But I'm hoping the break will help. Sometimes you just need some time off."

"You can say that again."

She thinks about keeping quiet for all of a second, but--she has to ask sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. "Any word on Dad?"

Her mother stiffens. "Clarke, honey, you know the second there's anything I can tell you--"

"I know," says Clarke. She unlocks the car. "I just--thought I'd ask."

"I'm sorry," says Abby, soft, and Clarke changes the subject to Wells' new girlfriend to keep the air from feeling too heavy and her hands from getting too hot.

Bellamy texts around ten the next morning, just a simple, _How's your mom?_

It's still enough to make her grin. _On an awkwardness scale of 1-10, probably like 4._

_Is that good? That sounds good._

_It could be a lot worse._ When he doesn't respond, she adds, _How's your vacation so far?_

 _I haven't put on pants, so I'm counting it as a win._ And then, _That was probably a weird thing to say._

She wonders what he'd do if she called him. Probably freak out and die. Bellamy doesn't strike her as the kind of guy who does well on the phone. _You're kind of weird. Are you going to put on pants at any point today?_

_Not if I can help it. I assume you're doing tourist stuff with your mom._

_Not if I can help it._

Raven wanders in at that point, and Clarke can't hide the phone or her smile before her roommate notices, and there's a brief scuffle before Raven triumphantly takes the phone and sees the texts.

"Since when do you text your dick coworker?" Raven asks.

"This is basically the first time."

"Except for when he _sent you his address_. Holy shit, did you get a booty text and not even tell me? How could you? I'm supposed to be informed about this stuff!"

"It wasn't a booty text! He and his sister are having a party on Saturday, he invited me."

Raven squints at her, and then throws the phone back with a disgusted sound. "God, you have a superhero boyfriend and a non-superhero boyfriend. This is such a cliche. You must be violating _someone's_ copyright."

Clarke flops back on the couch. "I'll let you know if I get sued."

*

Thanksgiving goes well, minimal awkwardness, and her mother doesn't trip over any superhero accessories, which was about the best she could hope for. Abby cancels dinner on Friday because of urgent business, which should be a relief, but Clarke can't stop worrying what the urgent business is. Some small, naive part of her hopes there's news of her father; the rest of her is sure it's some awful new legislation that's going to make her life even more terrible. Mandatory yearly tests for meta abilities or something.

Then Tempest calls and says, "I hope you're not doing anything," and her heart drops.

"What's wrong?"

"There was a murder. They think it was a meta. I got a description off the police scanner, and it sounds like an accident. They called in the big guns, and since Abby Griffin is in town--"

"She got called in too," Clarke says. It hadn't even occurred to her, that it could be local business. "Shit. Where?"

"That's the other thing. It's in--it's not our city, Flame. It's their territory. So it's--"

"It's a meta," she says. "And I don't trust them any more than Griffin. Meet at the park?"

He lets out a breath, like maybe he wasn't sure she'd agree. "Yeah, see you in twenty."

He's already at the park when she arrives, pacing, looking more frantic than she can remember. He still manages a tight smile for her. "How was your Thanksgiving?"

"Awkward. Where are we going?"

"If Vector's gang already has her, I know where they'd take her. So I'd say we check there first, and then--I don't know. You jet around and see if you find anything?" He scrubs his face. "I'd say we should split up, but I really think we shouldn't split up."

"No way. Let's check--is it their hideout? Do they have a hideout?"

He cracks a smile. "It's kind of a hideout."

"Does it have a no girls allowed sign?"

"Only one way to find out."

It's not until they're on their way that she says, "Tell me about the murder." He flashes her a dubious look and she adds, "Not, like, grizzly details, you just said it sounded like an accident. Why?"

"For one, the suspect is a kid. Estimated thirteen to sixteen. And it was--did you read about the Tuscon incident a few years ago? The kid who ripped a guy apart with his mind when he lost his temper?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"He was fourteen. I was thinking about what you said, elemental powers waking up when you're seventeen. And the witness report said the girl screamed first, and then the man, and then the girl ran. So--I'm thinking maybe fourteen is when _I can kill you with my brain_ wakes up, and this kid--I dunno, the guy threatened her maybe. Scared her. I have no idea. But if she could learn to control it--" He bites his lip. "She's just a kid."

"Fuck," Clarke says.

"Basically." He shrugs. "I could be wrong, but--the police don't care. Either way, they're taking her in. And I have no idea what Vector and his crew will think, but--"

"But they shouldn't get to decide. Not on their own."

"Exactly." He lets out a breath. "I hope they have her."

"Me too."

"Have I mentioned lately how fucking glad I am you showed up?"

"Not lately," she says, and squeezes his hand. "We'll get her, Tempest."

The hideout is actually pretty nice, and Tempest explains, as he expertly freezes and then breaks a lock, that Vector's rich, and not actually that interested in keeping his identity a secret from the other metas.

"He said it was a trust thing," he says. "He tells us, his people, who he is, because he knows we won't abuse it."

"He didn't tell me."

Tempest grins. "He didn't trust you. His name's Marcus Kane, in case you need to blackmail him." He sobers and then adds, "He knows my name, so I can't do it. We all told him, it seemed--he made it sound like the right thing to do. He was really convincing, when I was eighteen."

Clarke pats him on the shoulder. "We'll figure it out," she assures him. "We are getting so good at blackmail."

They're in the basement, which is even more of a cliche than Clarke's stupid love triangle, so at least she's not the most pathetic superhero in Seattle. She's going to mention it to Tempest, but then she sees the girl they have, tied up, looking miserable, and all other thoughts fall out of her head.

"Charlotte," she breathes.

It's too quiet for anyone but Tempest to hear her. There are six of them in the basement, talking in hushed voices--Vector himself, holding himself like a leader, Starlight and Whippoorwill, to his left and right, and three younger heroes, familiar, but no one whose name she knows off the top of her head.

And Charlotte. She _knew_ something was wrong, and she should have asked. If the girl was developing powers--Clarke could have talked to her, maybe figured it out. But she hadn't thought of that, somehow.

"What?" Tempest asks, just as soft.

"I know her," Clarke admits. "I've--she lives in my neighborhood."

Tempest nods. "I guess it's your first time, knowing someone who--" He cuts himself off. "You get used to it." There's a pause and then he says, "Fuck it, we should just say hi. They don't fight as much as we do, we'll be fine. If you have a chance to take the kid and leave me, do it."

"Why don't you just freeze them now and we take the kid and run?"

"I don't have enough water."

"Doesn't he have pipes or something?"

Tempest clucks his tongue. "Taking the girl and running won't be good for friendly relations. You don't even want to try to reason with them?"

"We have the element of surprise now. If we talk to them, we lose it. It's up to you--you know them. I just care about the girl. As long as we get her, I don't care."

It takes him long enough to respond that she starts getting antsy. Charlotte is _right there_ , blindfolded and tied up, and she must be terrified. Of course, she also has new mind powers that Clarke and Tempest are going to have to talk her though, but--first getting her the hell out of this creepy basement.

"We talk," he says. "And then, if they want to fight, we beat them, fair and square. So they'll see we can."

"You think we can?"

He grins, tight and humorless. "No question." And then he stands and says, "Yeah, this one? This one isn't just on you guys. You don't get to decide all on your own."

It's like the entire world is on pause, and then, without any discussion, the fighting begins.

It's chaos for a minute; Starlight throws some of her power at them, but she's basically a sparkler, and Clarke is a firestorm. She throws a wall of flame up in front of them, and Starlight's cantrips fizzle and die. Tempest yanks water out of the floor, through the pipes, bursting them, and it's going to be a mess here for a while, once everything melts.

Vector must realize that too, because he's saying, "Get them _out_ ," and some of the newbies are moving toward her.

Or trying, since the floor is frozen. They can still hurl power, so Clarke keeps up the fire while Tempest goes to get Charlotte, untying her and taking off the blindfold, murmuring reassurances.

"This isn't your decision," Vector calls. He sounds calm. "The murder was in our territory."

"She's _fourteen_ ," says Tempest. He glances at Charlotte. "Right?" She nods, terrified. "I don't care where it happens, I'll fight anyone who chains a fourteen-year-old kid up in their basement, Vector."

"Metas are our responsibility," Vector says.

Tempest looks at Clarke, and Clarke inclines her head.

"This one's our responsibility now," he says. "Come on."

Clarke squares her jaw. "I'll catch up. I'm gonna start the ice melting once we leave. I don't want them to be stuck too long."

"You don't?"

"We're trying for cordial relations, right?"

He lets out a small snort of laughter that makes something twinge oddly in her chest. "Right. Good luck with that. Meet me at the park, okay? If you're not there in half an hour I'm coming back here."

"Or you could just use the radio, like a normal person."

"Or that."

Once he's gone, Clarke lets the fire drop and regards Vector, steady. The thing is--Tempest is a good guy. A really good guy. And Clarke's a good person, but--well, she's about to not be _nice_. And he doesn't need to be around for that.

"You're not going to deal with new metas without us," she tells Vector, sitting down on the steps, tossing a small fireball in one hand, casual. "I don't care what else you do. This is your part of the city, you can keep it. We'll keep ours. But metas are everyone's business. And you don't get to make pronouncements on people's lives. Not alone."

"What are you going to do with her?" asks Vector.

Clarke considers, but the truth seems safe enough. "Talk to her. Let her go. Keep an eye on her." She pauses and adds, "I'll take responsibility for her, and if she has to be dealt with, I'll deal with her."

"What gives you the right--"

"What gave you the right?" Clarke asks. "I took it. We got her. We're not really interested in fighting with you guys. We've got better things to do. But if you want to fight, we will. And we'll win."

"I know his name," says Vector, and Clarke sees red for a second. But she doesn't burn. "Do you?"

"No. But I know yours. And if he disappears, if _anything_ happens to him, you'll be gone next."

Vector snorts, short, dismissive. "I have friends--"

"I have better ones," she says. "And if they won't take you, I don't care if you didn't have a thing to do with him disappearing, I will burn everything you love to the ground. So I'd make sure he stays safe, if I were you. I'm not planning on letting anything happen to him."

And then she leaves, without melting any ice.

But she's pretty sure Tempest knew that was a bullshit excuse anyway.

He radios when she's ten minutes out and says he's on the roof of Charlotte's apartment building, because she basically passed out; Clarke meets him up there, sitting down with him and the kid. He cleaned her up at some point, got the blood off her and her clothes, and she doesn't look at all like she killed anyone today.

"So, what did you tell them?"

Clarke smiles. "It was mostly just a bunch of not-at-all subtle threats about how they better let us help deal with metas or I'll light them all on fire."

"Cool. Freezing is pretty bad too, but it never sounds as scary. I definitely got shafted on the powers here." He worries his lip. "What are we gonna do with her? All she kept saying was _I'm sorry_ over and over again, and then she passed out. This might be beyond our pay grade."

"We wake her up and we talk to her. It's not our decision, right? No one ever told me what to do with my powers. It's on her."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." He shakes Charlotte's shoulder, gentle, and she stirs awake, blinking at Clarke. She shows no signs of recognition, which isn't really a surprise. Sometimes Clarke doesn't recognize herself in the mirror, dressed up as Flame.

Maybe she should tell Charlotte who she is, if knowing would help her. But it's too risky. Maybe later, if things get desperate. For now, Clarke is another unknown superhero, stern and serious. Tempest can be the good cop this time. She'll do it next time.

"Do you know what you did?" Clarke asks. Charlotte nods. "Why did you do it?"

"I didn't mean to!" she bursts out. "I knew--I knew I was getting powers. But I didn't know it would be like that! I was just--I was trying to see if I could move some cans, from the dumpster, and he came up behind me, said it was dangerous--" She chokes on a sob. "He scared me and I screamed and turned around and he just--"

Tempest puts his arm around her and squeezes.

"I don't even know if he was a bad guy," Charlotte admits, soft. "He might have really been worried."

Clarke and Tempest exchange a look. It's the kind of thing that makes her long for a real criminal justice system for people like them, not because she thinks Charlotte needs to get locked away or anything, but because she could have a trial and be told, by someone in authority, exactly how guilty she should feel.

She can't imagine her mother looking at this scared girl and seeing a tool to be used, but the limits of her imagination are her own failing. She knows what would happen, if they took Charlotte to the police.

"What do you think you should do?" Tempest asks, gentle, and Clarke remembers him saying he has a sister.

"They took my dad," says Charlotte, soft. "When I was little. He said it was a new job, and he'd be back, but--if I tell them what I can do, I won't come back either, will I?"

"Some people do," Clarke says, thinking of Octavia's father. "But--a lot of people don't want to register, no."

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Do you know what you did?" Clarke asks. "Do you remember how it felt?"

"Yeah."

"And do you know somewhere you can practice, somewhere no one will find you and catch you when you're not in control?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have a cellphone?" Tempest asks, apparently surprising Charlotte as well as Clarke. When Clarke frowns at him, he just shrugs. "I still have that burner phone, might as well use it."

"I have one," says Charlotte.

"I'll give you the number, and you can call us, if anything happens. Or if those other guys bother you again."

"I could have hurt them," she says, soft. "I knew how. They couldn't have stopped me. But--"

"If they come for you again, you should," says Tempest. "If someone tries to hurt you, you're allowed to protect yourself."

"But try not to kill them," Clarke adds. "It's just easier for everybody."

There's a long pause, and then Charlotte asks, hesitant, "Is that it?"

"That's it. But--you have to understand," says Clarke. "If this happens again, it won't be like this. You only get one mistake like that. It was a big deal, and it wasn't okay. But--it was a mistake. And you don't deserve to lose your entire life over it."

"He did," Charlotte says, soft. "He lost his life."

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind," says Tempest. "We're all just doing the best we can, okay? So keep doing what you can. And we'll come check on you soon."

They walk her to the door, and when she hears the click of the lock behind Charlotte, Clarke lets out a breath it feels like she's been holding since Tempest called and tries to calm her racing heart. Tempest seems to be doing the same thing two of them just stare at each other for a long minute, breathing hard. Relief and adrenaline are rushing through Clarke, making her limbs tingle. They got there in time, they saved the kid, she's safe, and--

Clarke isn't sure who makes the first move. She thinks she steps in at the same time Tempest leans down, and then they're kissing, no warmth, no finesse, just heat and teeth, more of a fight than the one they had with Vector's crew, honestly. Her hands try to find his hair, and there's a minute where she's surprised to just hit the cowl instead of curls, but--Tempest, right. She's kissing Tempest.

And it's _good_. His hands track up her sides, warm and solid, and Clarke wonders exactly how far they can go without crossing a line they can't uncross. Not sex, sex is fine, but--he's not allowed to try to see her. She can't give him that.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck. Are you--"

"Yes," she says, and he laughs against her mouth.

"I didn't ask anything."

"Am I horny and do I want you to fuck me? Yes. Was there another question?"

He bites her bottom lip. "Condoms would be a question. Weirdly, I don't usually bring birth control when I'm going out to fight crime."

"Fuck," Clarke mutters, letting her hands skate up his stomach. It's hard to feel through his armor, but--it's definitely solid. She pauses, a thought suddenly occurring to her, and then asks, "Are you sure?"

"What?"

"I'm just saying--" She pauses, turns on her radio, "Delphi, you there?"

"Yo," says Raven.

"How bad is your sense of humor?"

"That's a loaded question."

"Did you put condoms in Tempest's utility belt?"

"Holy shit, are you gonna get laid? Where are you? I thought this was an emergency."

"Yes or no?"

"On the back, the round pouch, there are like five. And you should buy me something nice, I totally knew you were going to fuck him."

"I'm hanging up now," says Clarke. Tempest is watching her, and she can't help being nervous, now that the sure, initial rush has worn off. But--she's still wet, eager, and he's still pressed up against her, the clear evidence of his own interest hard on her leg, and when Clarke pushes against him, he groans, and--yeah, she needs him to be fucking her _right now_. She reaches around behind him, finds a round pouch, and pulls a packet out of it. "You're a boy scout and you didn't even know it," she says, smirking.

He's watching her, a little worried. "This isn't--I'm not--"

"One time thing," Clarke says. "I--kind of have someone," she says, careful. "Or--I want someone."

He smiles, leans down to kiss her again, slower and softer. A melting kiss. "Me too. Want someone, I mean. I think hell would have to freeze over, but--"

Clarke finds the fly on his pants, fumbles to get the button undone and the zipper pulled down so she can wrap her fingers around his dick. "Hey, if anyone can freeze hell, it's you."

He laughs, breathless, and kisses her again. "Don't start with me, I'm the one with the shitty recovery time," he says, and turns her around, pressing her against the wall and trapping her. "I got you," he murmurs against her neck, and he gets her pants shoved down and his hand between her legs, fingers sliding into her folds, rubbing her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. He has perfect fingers, and Clarke's has nothing but her own hand or her vibrator there for way too long.

"Fuck, no one ever said we just won a fucking fight sex was so hot," she says, and he laughs, moves his hand down to tease her entrance, and she bites her arm to keep from moaning too loudly. 

"How many people do you know who get laid after fighting?" Tempest asks, getting her legs as far apart as he can, with her still wearing her pants. Clarke would never want to be one of those comic-book superheroines with the tiny, impractical skirt, but she has to admit, she wouldn't mind easy access right now. 

He scrapes his teeth against her jaw, light, and she manages to say, "No marks," around a moan.

"No marks," he agrees. "Do you want to get off first, or do you just want--"

"Fuck me," she says, and he laughs and takes the condom from her.

She nearly bites through her lip when he slides into her, it feels so good. She really should not have gone so long without having sex, but--

Well, Tempest is fucking her now, she's not going to think about anyone else she might want to fuck. It's rude.

He drops his face against her shoulder, taking a minute for both of them to adjust, and then he starts fucking her, hard and fast, just like she wants it. Clarke's never had sex outside before, let alone on a roof, where anyone could see, but--god, it's exactly what she needs right now, hot and fast and weirdly anonymous, given Tempest is still one of her closest friends.

"You know the only bad thing about this?" he asks, fingers finding her clit again.

"No marks?"

"I'm pretty sure you have amazing breasts and I can't get my hands on them."

Clarke laughs, breathless, dropping her forehead against the wall, trying not to get too overheated. The last thing she needs to do is set the building on fire while she's getting laid. "I do," she tells him. "Sorry."

"I'll live." He nips her jaw, very light. "No marks sucks a little too, but--fuck, Flame."

It's so jarring she almost tells him her name, just so--what? He can moan the right thing when he comes? That would be seven billion kinds of awkward.

But he laughs a little, soft. "It's weird to call someone their superhero name when you're fucking them, right?"

"Just a little." She cranes her neck around to kiss him. "I'll forgive you."

He kisses back, hot and a little desperate, and his fingers speed up on her clit, working her relentlessly. She's making too much noise to keep the kiss up soon enough, so Tempest noses her cheek, her jaw, warm, friendly affection.

She does kind of love Tempest. She couldn't--she wouldn't know how to be with him, not without telling him a lot of things she doesn't know how to, not without asking for things she can't, and, well.

He's got someone. She's got someone. This isn't what they are.

But it's one hell of an orgasm.

He follows her only a few seconds later, groaning against her neck. They stay there for a long minute, breathing, still pressed together, his dick still in her. It should probably feel awkward, but Clarke mostly just feels warm and content and very, very satisfied.

"So, I'm not going to call you," Tempest says, conversational, and Clarke laughs.

"You don't have my number."

"Exactly."

"And we've both got--"

"Yeah."

They pull apart and get their clothes straightened, and then they survey each other with goofy grins.

"So, if it doesn't work out with that girl--" she says, and he laughs and leans down to kiss her again.

"Same with you and that guy. See you Monday?"

Raven is all smugness when she gets back, and Clarke promises gossip once she's changed into real clothes, even if she's pretty sure it's not the gossip Raven wants, given _we're friends, we fucked once, we're both into real people, so that's it_ is pretty unsatisfying.

Well, the _I'm into Bellamy_ part would be incredibly satisfying for Raven, but Clarke isn't planning to admit that. But she and Tempest--she assumes he isn't Tempest any more than she's Flame, and they'd need to do a lot more, to ever be more than fuck buddies. She doesn't know if they _could_ be real.

But it was a fun night.

She's checking herself in the mirror to make sure he really didn't leave any marks when she spots a smudge on her jaw, rubs it off and finds concealer on her fingertips, making her smile.

That's how not real he is. He's covering up his stupid _face_. Maybe he has a weird scar or birthmark or something. Or maybe he just has a lot of blemishes and he's embarrassed. 

Clarke smiles at the thought, washes her face off, and goes to face the interrogation.

*

Her mother leaves the next afternoon, without giving Clarke any indication of what business came up so abruptly or whether or not it had been resolved. Maybe it's always going to be like this, Clarke loving her mother and not being able to quite look at her directly, like an eclipse, for fear of what will happen to her.

Or maybe, someday, it will get better.

Still, she hugs her mother goodbye and tells her she loves her, and she means it. She'd probably be happier, as a human being, if she didn't, but this is the life she's got. She loves her mother, she slept with a guy whose face she's never even seen, and now she has two hours to get ready for a party hosted by the guy she's actually into.

She should have just gotten a crush on Maya like she was planning to. That sounds like so much less of a disaster.

Raven teases her about pretty much every decision she's made in the last twenty-four hours, but Clarke's pretty sure that's just because she didn't fill her in on the Charlotte thing. She thinks she handled that one pretty well, all things considered. Threatening to burn down everything Vector has ever loved aside, and that was more of a Tempest thing anyway. And she's willing to grant that she did not make the best Tempest-related decisions yesterday.

Bellamy is acting weird, too, when she gets to the party, which doesn't help her mood. Not that he isn't usually weird, he's weird like 90% of the time, but usually he's weird at her, and now he's being weird away from her, talking to Miller and his sister and even Jasper and Maya instead of her. Which is not what she's used to. They always find each other.

"I thought we were kind of friends," she tells Monty, frowning at her drink.

"We are," says Monty. "Aren't we? Do you not like me?"

"No, of course we are," she says, smiling a little. "Not you. Me and Bellamy. I thought he liked me."

"Bellamy? Of course Bellamy likes you. Bellamy's crazy about you." Clarke blinks at him a few times, not because she thinks he's wrong or anything, just because he sounds so _sure_ about it. Like this is common knowledge. Obvious.

"Like--we're pals, or he wants to make out with me in the supply closet?" she asks, wary.

Monty shrugs. "Bellamy and I don't exactly chat about girls. Or boys, in my case. All I know is, I've worked here for four years, and every year until now, he has gone out with us after work exactly twice: the first week of school, and the last week. And this year, he's gone every time. And all he does is talk to you."

Clarke feels warmth blossom in her chest. For a smart guy, Bellamy is just--kind of an idiot. Which she probably should have remembered, but she was off her game. She's had a weird week.

"Then I'm gonna go hang out with him," she says, and Monty just grins.

"I was surprised you were slumming it with me."

"I'll send Miller your way."

He salutes her with her drink, and she goes back to Bellamy, bumping her shoulder against his.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi." He gives her a smile that--yeah. Sex with Tempest was great, but he's the one she wants. Miller even leaves them to go hang out with Monty without being prompted. That's how obvious they are. "Having fun?"

"Yeah. Your sister throws a pretty good party."

"Not giving me any credit, huh?"

"None at all. I have met you. You went out of your way to invite me and said you wanted me to come, and you didn't even say hi."

He ducks his head, smiling. "I waved," he says, like he knows this is not a valid argument.

"You did. Are you having fun?"

"Sure. How was your Thanksgiving? Everything okay with your mom?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Not--I'm pretty sure our relationship will be awkward for the rest of our lives, but she's my mom, you know?"

"Yeah, I get that." He clears his throat. "I am, uh. I am glad you came."

"Has your sister made a move on Lincoln yet?"

"Not yet. You could still win."

"Maybe." It feels like the moment to say something like _Monty says you only come hang out because of me_ , but it's actually too--nice, honestly. It's companionable and easy, just the two of them, watching the crowd. She doesn't want to break the spell.

The silence is getting long enough to be weird when the single most remarkable thing that has ever happened to Clarke--including her powers and her father and _everything_ \--happens.

Bellamy Blake laughs.

It's bright and surprised, happy, and Clarke knows with sudden clarity that she has never heard him laugh before, not like that, that unexpected, delightful sound. He'll scoff, half-laugh, roll his eyes in amusement, but he never just _laughs_.

And she's sure he doesn't, because she knows that laugh. She hasn't heard it, not exactly, since Raven made Tempest his own suit, because she installed the same voice modulator that Clarke has, but she knows it. 

She's so sure.

They're leaning against the table together, and she recognizes that too, now that she thinks about i. It's the same angle to look at him, the same posture, the easy way they fall into looking at things together.

Bellamy Blake is absolutely, one-hundred percent, unmistakably _Tempest_. He has to be. It's like all her birthdays and Christmases together, all at once.

"Clarke?" he says, nudging her, and she can even hear it, now that she's paying attention. "You listening?"

"Not at all."

He snorts, his usual half-laugh, and she remembers Tempest doing that yesterday, the familiarity of it. That tiny twinge of recognition.

"At least you're honest."

"Mostly," she says. She can't say anything _now_. They're in the middle of a party. They cannot possibly have this conversation here. "What's up?"

"Monty and Miller are dancing," he says. "I told you I would have lost the twenty bucks."

"Octavia's a safer bet, yeah," she agrees. _Hell would have to freeze over_ , she remembers him saying suddenly, and he probably meant _her_ , and he's a dumbass. "I didn't know dancing was on the agenda."

"Octavia always encourages dancing."

"So, do you want to?"

"What?"

"Dance."

He looks genuinely alarmed. "With you?"

She can't help smirking. "You don't _have_ to." 

"No, no. That's--" He clears his throat. "Yeah. Let's dance."

She twines her arms around his neck, feels the vaguely familiar press of him against her. It's different without the armor, but--god, it's definitely him, right? She is somehow this lucky.

They dance for three songs before Octavia apologetically drags Bellamy off to help with party stuff, and Monty comes over to take the lead instead.

"He never dances either," he says, giving her a twirl. "I told you he was crazy about you."

Clarke grins. "Oh, you have no idea."

*

On Monday, she goes to his room after school and throws a copy of _The Tempest_ at him, because despite two days of thinking about it, she did not come up with a good way to start this conversation. Somehow just saying it was not an option.

"Ow, Jesus, what the hell!" he says, scowling at her. "What was that for?"

"You don't get to make fun of English teachers when you got your stupid code name from a Shakespeare play," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Even the thin veneer of annoyance is difficult to maintain, watching his face cycle through expressions. It's kind of unbelievable he helps out with the spring play, because his poker face is shit. He finally settles on just staring at her, calculating, and Clarke checks to make sure she really did lock the door before she holds up her hand and summons, just for a second, a small ball of flame.

"Holy shit," he breathes, and he's halfway to her before he stops, swallowing hard and watching her, expression unreadable. Clarke thought she was about to be in for some pretty hardcore making out, so she's more than a little disappointed, until she remembers. She knows her two favorite guys are the same person; Bellamy thinks he doesn't have a shot with her and probably thinks he lost any vague shot he had with Flame too.

"Bellamy," she says, fond, and takes the last few steps to kiss him herself.

To his credit, he wastes no time responding. His hands come up to cup her face, and he kisses her back, slow and deliberate, slowing her down as she tries to do everything at once. He wants to savor it, and it's enough to get her to reign herself in too, to enjoy it like he is.

"How did you," he manages, barely, not willing to break away long enough for a full question.

"You never fucking _laugh_ ," she says, and then he does pull back, vaguely incredulous. 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're always just, smirking or snorting or whatever! You never laugh."

"I laugh."

"You don't, because as soon as I heard it, I knew who you were, so there is no possible way you laugh. I recognized you right away."

"Jesus, if I'd known that was all I had to do," he says, leaning in to kiss her again. "I'll laugh all the fucking time."

Clarke slides her hands up to tangle in his hair, like she wanted to yesterday. "You just had to ask. _Hell would have to freeze over_ ," she scoffs, shaking her head. "You know I was talking about you too, right? We agreed to not sleep with each other because we want to date each other."

"Thank fucking god," he says. He grins, all boyish and happy, and Clarke's heart flips. "Don't get me wrong, I'm really into you, but that was some awesome sex."

Clarke laughs, tugging him closer, kissing him again, and his hand slides up under her shirt and then higher, toying with her bra. She's about to return the favor, fingers flirting with untucking his shirt, when there's a knock at the door and they startle apart. Clarke looks him up and down, but he doesn't look too obviously ravished, and he gives her a rueful smile.

"You had to do this at school?" he asks. "I'm going to see you tonight, right? You could have waited."

"Yeah, but--I wanted it to be you." His eyes soften, and she pushes him toward the door before he can lean in again. "Go be an educator."

It's Monroe, from her junior class, and she blushes when she sees Clarke.

"Oh, um, I didn't mean to interrupt, I just--"

"It's fine, Mr. Blake and I were just having a discussion about Shakespeare," Clarke says, sliding off the desk Bellamy must have, at some point, pushed her onto. It's kind of a blur.

"I'm just saying, he's a good writer, but that doesn't make him a historian," Bellamy says, in the tones of someone who has had this argument before, many times.

Clarke really does love him.

"Yeah, yeah," she says. "I'll talk to you later, Blake."

He's still smiling when she loses sight of him, and she is too.

*

He's waiting on the roof where they usually meet, the same as always, and Clarke sits down next to him, rests her head against his shoulder.

"Charlotte's in my class."

He leans back into her. "Freshman?"

"Yeah."

"Makes sense. I thought she looked familiar, but I don't have any freshmen this year." His hand finds hers and squeezes, and she's never been happier their powers don't get along with gloves. He's warm and solid and perfect. "I guess you can keep an eye on her."

"She was in today. Looked tired. I noticed she'd been quiet before Thanksgiving, I asked if everything was okay at home."

"And?"

"She says it's getting better."

Tempest, or Bellamy, or, well, whoever, kisses the top of her head. "That's good." He sighs. "We've got a lot to do, you know. Vector's pissed at us. Probably isn't going to just let go of this. And I might have to meet your mother someday."

She laughs. "You'll definitely have to meet my mother someday. But, you know, later. You don't have to be such a pessimist."

"It's going to be weird if I'm grinning like an idiot while we're on patrol," he says. "Grinning vigilantes freak people out. I'm trying to ground myself."

Clarke squeezes his fingers. "Or we could just wait a few minutes while you get it under control. We've got a pretty good view here. We'll see if anything bad happens in these neighborhoods."

His arm comes up around her, tugging her in against her side to watch their city. "Just for a minute," he says. "It is a pretty nice view."


End file.
